


Sun and Waves

by Kleenexwoman



Category: Agent Pendergast Series - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, imperfect relationships, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 14:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2584106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/pseuds/Kleenexwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Viola and Pendergast did on their summer vacation and how it got real awkward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sun and Waves

It's noon on Capraia, and the sky is white with heat. The wine-dark sea laps lackadaisically at the shore, like lovers exchanging lazy kisses. Aloysius digs his feet into the wet sand, cooling himself. It's his second day with Viola, and already his senses are full of the salt air, the haze where the horizon should be, the taste of strong red wine. 

Viola is next to him, spread out on a towel, sunning herself. Her wind-tossed spreads out over the naked skin of her back. Her eyes are closed, red lips slightly open as she dozes, and his heart swells with affection for her, sensual attraction, the desire to reach out and caress her. He twines a lock of her hair around his slim white fingers, enjoying the contrast. Glossy black hair, dark as a raven's wing. 

"Mmm." Viola lifts her head and brushes his hand away. Her eyes open, and she smiles and props herself up on her elbow. "Are you hungry?" 

She's packed a simple lunch of olives, crusty bread, hard cheese, and more red wine. They eat, and she pops an olive in his mouth, laughing. He chews it and smiles wanly at her. Suddenly, it's though he's looking at a stranger--he's on a beach with a beautiful woman, and he does not know her, he does not care for her, he does not know how he got here. This picnic lunch is a parody of romance, an attempt at replicating something that other people do. Normal people. 

It would be nice, he thinks, to be normal. Viola is watching him, the laughter slowly fading from her eyes. "Darling?" she asks. "Are you all right?" 

"Wonderful," he replies. He rubs his thumb along the rim of the half-full bottle of wine. Viola didn't bother to bring glasses, and they've been taking turns drinking from it. He lifts it to his lips and takes a mouthful, then leans over and kisses her. He can feel her lips open against his, their tongues meeting and caressing in the wine. 

Eventually, Viola draws back, a thin red line of wine running from the corner of her mouth. Aloysius wipes it away with his thumb. Red wine against white skin. Viola's skin is so deeply tanned, as though she has been made love to by the sun. 

She brushes her fingertips across his face, her dark eyes wide, as though she cannot believe he is in front of her--a dream come to life, a mirage brought on by the heat. "Let's make love out here," she whispers, "on the beach." 

They wrap around each other and roll into the water. The sand is gritty and unpleasant under his back, the water surprisingly cold, a shock after hours of hot sun. She arranges herself where the waves lap against the shore, clear salt water laving her skin. He rises on his knees over her and bends down to press his lips against her skin, tasting the warm sweat of her body and the cool salt of the ocean. 

It's been years since he's done anything like this, and it's imperfect, awkward. Viola laughs, the salt water tangling her hair into sodden strands, and pulls him down for a kiss. Their teeth clack against each other, and she bites his lower lip and growls playfully. The rough sand against his skin is itchy, distracting. He wants to submerge in the water and wash it away, let himself float and forget that he is in a body. 

Viola's hands travel up the back of his thighs and clutch his buttocks. He twitches, surprised, and she spreads her legs and guides him inside of her. 

He lets his mind drift over the beach, over the waves, like a seagull floating over the ocean. His body is on autopilot, thrusting into Viola with the rhythm of the waves. Her moans are like the cries of some ocean bird, melting away into the waves and the sound of the wind through the trees. 

Aloysius comes back to himself, sliding out of Viola. She strokes his hair. "That was amazing," she murmurs. 

"I'm glad," he says, and kisses her. 

*

They make dinner together. Viola cuts tomatoes and mozzarella for a Caprese salad. Aloysius drops thick pieces of malloreddus pasta into a pot of boiling water. He catches Viola glancing at him across her shoulder. She smiles at him, and does not look away. 

"Hm?" he says. 

"Nothing." The smile turns into a grin. 

"You're staring," he says, trying to tease. 

"I just like looking at you," she says. "You're lovely." 

"You don't have to," he says. 

She tilts her head, puzzled. "You don't like it?" 

He turns his back to her to pour the boiling water out of the pot of pasta. "Usually, when people stare at me, it's because I'm terribly out of place." 

"But you're not out of place here," she says. 

He doesn't answer, and she goes back to chopping tomatoes. "It's just that we have so little time together," she says, her voice strained. "And I know we haven't known each other very long, but..." Her voice hitches. Aloysius turns around to see her lay down the knife, her shoulders hunched, her hand to her face. 

He places a hand on her back. "I'm glad I'm here with you," he says. "I'm sorry if it's not all you expected." 

Viola sniffles. "I don't want it to be like with everyone else, where it's just sex, where we've got nothing to talk about." She turns around, her face streaked with tears. "I want to know you. Really and truly." 

Aloysius puts his arms around her. He feels her body shaking against his. The connection he feels to her is inconsistent, blazing one moment and ice cold the next. Perhaps they should have never met again, and he could have cherished the memory of that singular connection, that electric moment. It's been so long since Helen, he doesn't remember how to do this, how to love a woman in this way. What he and Helen had seemed effortless, whirlwind. Have the years of celibacy and emotional isolation atrophied his capacity for romantic love? 

The idea of Viola knowing him, really and truly, is as frightening as it is compelling. To pour all of his darkness, all of his fears, into someone so willing to receive them--to have someone share his burdens, his angst. To be so transparent to anyone in the world. He's cherished his singularity, opened up little by little to a few people he chose as carefully as he could. 

"There is so much to know," he murmurs in her ear. "You can't imagine." 

Viola rests her head against his. "As long as you stay," she says, "I don't care. I really don't." 

She gazes up at him through a haze of tears, blinking the glistening drops on her eyelashes away. He smoothes away a tear with his thumb. "And you," he says, "you want me to know you." 

"Well." She laughs, and her laugh has a brittle undertone, like shattered diamonds. "I suppose there isn't really all that much to know, is there?" 

*

They eat outside, in the cool blue light of the red sunset. "It's like a fairy island," Viola says. "Like the places I wanted to escape to when I was a girl. My parents sent me to a boarding school in France that was surrounded by this big, bosky forest. I used to escape there and read, and then pretend that I was playing in the woods with the Pevensie children, or on a hunt with Diana and Pan." 

"Escape?" Aloysius picks up a forkful of malloreddus and sausage. "As though it were a prison." 

"I suppose I thought of it that way," Viola says. Her fork clinks on her plate. "There were these awful girls who--well, never mind that. What about you? I'm sure you had lots to escape, as a child." 

Aloysius swallows. "I did," he says. "But I'd rather speak of pleasant things." 

"Oh." Viola stares at her plate. "I'm terribly sorry. And with that brother of yours--" 

"There are many things I'd rather not speak of," Aloysius says, gently. "It's not because I don't want you to know me, Viola. There's a great deal it's very painful for me to remember. As you've said, we have very little time together, and I want to remember only happy things with you." 

Viola brightens. "I'll show you the olive grove tomorrow," she says. 

*

They retire to Viola's bedroom, later. When Aloysius takes off his shirt, Viola gasps. "Oh," she says, "oh, my darling, you're so sunburned! Your poor back." 

Aloysius twists to look at his back in the mirror. A light sheen of red has spread itself over his white skin. There are red patches on his chest and a band of red across his cheeks and nose. He had barely noticed it before Viola pointed it out. 

Viola points to the bed. It's huge, a four-post bed with the softest mattress he's ever slept on. "Lie down," she says. "I'll put some aloe on your back. Oh, you poor thing. The sun can be so wicked here." 

"I can barely feel it," Aloysius assures her. He recalls lying in a linen tent, somewhere in sub-Saharan Africa, Helen dabbing cool water on his blistered skin with a washcloth, humming soft lullabies as he drifted in and out of fever dreams. Heat alone has never really bothered him, but dehydration and the punishing sun of the veldt managed to do him in. 

Viola rolls her eyes. "I know it's not severe, but you must take care of yourself. It will hurt much worse later. And then you'll peel and I don't think you'll like that." She brandishes a tube of aloe vera gel at him. "Lie down and let me tend to your wounds." 

Aloysius obeys her, crawling onto the bed and easing himself down. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the dull red behind his eyelids, on the itching warmth that spreads across his back. He feels Viola straddle him, her slim legs pressing against his hips. Trapping him. "Poor dear," she coos in his ear, her warm breath brushing his cheek. "I'll make it all feel better." He hears the slipslap of her palms, warming the aloe. He can smell the scent of Viola, warm like baking bread, salty like the sea, and the intensely artificial coconut scent of the aloe gel cutting through. 

Her hands on his back are gentle. Soft and light, as though she fears she'll break him. He would tell her that he can take more, that he's used to punishing deep-tissue massages when his back hurts him, that he's been chained up and whipped and pain is no longer a problem. But she's humming a wordless lullaby in his ear, and the aloe is spreading coolness across his back, a kind of soothing he didn't know he needed until now. 

Viola presses kisses to his skin, kisses that land as easily as rose petals. Her mouth moves along his neck, and he can feel her stretch out over his body, her warm smooth skin like a fire on top of his. He rolls over, tangling her legs in his, and closes his hands around her wrists. She is still over him, but suspended, caught. 

"Aloysius!" she exclaims, dark hair falling into her eyes. She is grinning in anticipation, but the grin begins to fade as she realizes he isn't going to make another move. "Darling...are you all right?" 

He doesn't know what he's doing here, with this woman who seems to think she could break him if she pressed too hard. He doesn't know what he's doing here with a woman who is not his wife, who is not dead. He doesn't know what he's doing here, lying in the sun all day, aimless, endless. Leisure is never this easy--a game of chess to keep the mind sharp, a dull stakeout spent reading, an hour snatched from a hectic investigation to drink tea in a cafe with a friend. The time in his life when he could jet off to Indonesia or Wales for no reason at all and expect nothing bad to happen is gone. He knows he will pay for this vacation in blood, somewhere along the line. 

"Aloysius, darling, what's wrong?" Viola is peering down at him, her brow furrowed in concern. Her hands flutter uselessly. He cannot bring himself to let her go. "You're so far away. You were like that on the beach--when we--" 

He's angry with her, suddenly. Angry with her for asking so much, such a large measure of trust and desire when they barely know each other. Angry with her for wanting him, for being winsome and tragic enough to fool him into wanting her back. Angry with her for sparking a desire he thought he had tamped down forever, was content with neglecting forever. She's gone and made things complicated, terrifying. 

"What do you really want to know?" he asks, his voice a a whisper. "Do you want to know about my family? My school days? My wife?" She flinches, and he presses on. "Do you want me to tell you all about my brother?" 

"Don't mention him!" She squeezes her eyes shut. "I don't want to think of him. Not here." 

"When, then? On the beach? At dinner? When we're drifting off to sleep?" 

"I don't know! I just..." She bites her lip. "Not here, please." 

"You said you wanted to know me," he protests. "Were you lying? You only want to know the nice parts, the happy parts? The parts that will make you feel sorry for me without being disgusted?" 

She yanks her hands from his grip. "For God's sake, Aloysius. Can't we be who we are with each other without the past having to occupy us? Can't I enjoy a moment with you and know you're here, with me, and that you're thinking of me like I'm thinking of you--that you're happy, and that that's all that matters?" 

Her pretty red mouth is twisted into a frown. His anger ebbs and dwindles quickly, replaced by a meager flicker of embarrassment. "If you like," he says. "Is that all you want?" 

"It's all I ever want," she says. 

He withdraws his slender, white fingers from her wrists. "Give me a moment." 

She waits, to her credit, balancing atop his body with her hands at his sides. 

He goes into himself, creates a meditative state. Like the soul stepping out of itself, perception divorced from perception. It's easy; he does it in the space of a moment when he wants to play a role, when he needs to commit an act of violence because there is no other way to solve a problem. The practice is becoming easier. 

But this time, he is trying to fool himself, to become some kind of self that can be here, now, with Viola, and nowhere else. He has never been able to practice the kind of mindfulness of one who is truly enlightened, to keep the dread of the past and the calculations of the future from impinging on the present. He often supposes, in an abstract sort of way, that some part of him fears it would be tantamount to erasing himself. 

Aloysius sees himself where Viola is. He is muscular and slim, white as though he'd never been outside. When he moves, even the slightest bit, it's with the grace of a jungle cat. Muscles like iron moving under skin like silk, blue eyes glittering with power, with lust. 

This is him now--this is how Viola sees him, it must be. Competent, mysterious, powerful, erotic. The him he knows is lying under this him, and he is pale, scrawny, painfully repressed, cold and neurotic... 

"Stop it." Viola's construct of him grips his wrists, slams his thin arms down on the mattress. He brings his face close to his counterpart's, pale pink lips parting, blue eyes wet and intense. "She's a beautiful woman, and she wants you." His voice is soft and deadly. A katana wrapped in a kimono. A steel knife in a velvet holster. Magnolia petals and the sting of a wasp. A million sensuous, intoxicating images. It's perfume, wafting through his mind, wrapping around it like a kiss. 

"She's had so many other lovers. And Helen...Helen was so long ago." It's the same voice, but this protest sounds weak, affected, pretentious. 

"Is that all this is about? Fearing you won't measure up?" Aloysius spreads his legs, straddling his weaker self. He's erect, flushed with desire. "No need to concern yourself with that possibility." 

"You know it's more than that," he murmurs. "This means so much to her. I still don't know what it means to me. Why I'm here." 

Aloysius's lips twist in a sardonic smile. "Because your presence was requested. Your services required." 

"No," he whispers. "I've refused seduction. Resisted temptation. I've done it before. I could have done it again." 

"Then it must be because you desired it," Aloysius declares. "You've been denying yourself the true pleasures of the flesh for so long--a steak tartare and a glass of sherry aren't enough, not really. Not for a decade of celibacy." He leans forward, his warm breath caressing his counterpart's face. "Did you think your love for Helen would keep your body pure? You have needs, as much as you despise admitting it." 

"Is this what it's all about? This grand affair, this sabbatical, just to fulfill some animal lust? Have I sunk this low?" He feels veils of blackness descend over his prone body, something shriveling, curling away in disgust from his self-loathing. 

A slender, strong hand rips them away. "If you'd prefer a more complicated scenario, I believe we can contact one." He's staring into those blue eyes again, those eyes that want, that desire, that demand. "You don't merely desire. You seek that desire, kindle the spark and desperately fan the flame." 

He moves on top of himself, warm body against warm body, muscles against muscles and skin against skin. He feels himself intimately, each act and each sensation mirrored, a circuit lighting up forever. Aloysius has never felt this physically close to anyone, this deeply and truly connected--it's as though his body and his mind are one. Lying on the bed, trapped under himself, he throws back his head and bares his throat, pale pink lips opening in a gasp. 

"Let me give you that desire," his other self murmurs, lips sliding along the sensitive shell of his ear. 

And then he is with Viola, pressed against her warm soft body, hard and wanting. She wriggles on top of him, clearly pleased. "It's about bloody time," she says cheerfully. 

Aloysius lets his hands roam over her body, her full breasts and her taut stomach, the slim muscles of her arms and the corded muscles of her thighs. His hands wander to her buttocks, firm and fleshy, and he pulls her in closer. 

She opens her legs for him, and he laps at the wetness between her thighs, running his tongue along her folds. She tastes salty and warm and organic, like the sea, and her hair cascades over her face as she throws her head back in ecstasy. 

Everything he is now is centered on bringing Viola pleasure. He finds the nub between her legs and swirls his tongue around it, listening to when her gasps of "Oh, Aloysius, please" become "Well, it's ABOUT BLOODY TIME." Her hips shake and push forward, the sticky juices of her orgasm leaking out onto his chin. 

She collapses off of him and curls up, satisfied as a cat. "Wonderful," she murmurs. He stretches out beside her, gingerly putting an arm over her body. He's erect, but there is very little desire in him; it seems like a reflex he has no particular attachment to, some side effect. 

Viola takes his hand in hers and kisses his knuckles, sticking the tip of her tongue out to lap at each fingertip. "I'll be all right in a moment," she mumbles, but soon she is snoring softly. 

Aloysius strokes her black hair, black as a raven's wing. His back aches and his body is throbbing, and he wishes he could leave it, sleep as contentedly and softly as Viola. 

When he sleeps, he dreams of falling into fire.


End file.
